Sharpe's Slayers
by Talutha
Summary: BtVSSharpe Xover. Portugal, 1813: From the moment that the two strange women appear in his life, Major Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles knows that things are going to get stranger.
1. Cakes and String

**_"SHARPE'S SLAYERS"_**

TTH Fic challenge #690, Buffy/Sharpe crossover

Crossposted to Twisting The Hellmouth

PAIRINGS: None at this stage.

TIMING: Post Season Seven, before Buffy departs for Europe. A few weeks after "Chosen", the gang has relocated to Cleveland while future plans are laid. Sharpe-verse wise, this takes place between "Sharpe's Enemy" and "Sharpe's Honour". I am placing this in the movie-verse, since I am more familiar with them than the books and have no desire to make big canonical mistakes. Also, who can resist Sean Bean?

Thanks for the plot bunny Starbug! I look forward to this one!

**All the usual disclaimers apply.**

**Context**

The Peninsular Campaign of the Napoleonic Wars lasted from 1808 until 1814. In 1813, under the command of Arthur Wellesley, Viscount of Wellington (later Duke of Wellington), the British forces went on the offensive and drove the French forces northward, out of Portugal and Spain and off the Iberian Peninsula. The Battle of Waterloo was the culmination of the offensive in 1815. The story takes place in early spring 1813, during the preparations for Wellesley's push into Northern Spain.

**Chapter One: Cakes and String**

Eyes blazing and face contorted, Faith lashed out at Buffy with a combo guaranteed to snap both of a lesser mortal's shins. Buffy skipped backward and retaliated with a spinning backfist, using her opponent' s own momentum to increase the force of the blow. Faith shuddered as it connected, then swung upward and caught Buffy a glancing bow across the jaw that snapped her head back and gave Faith the advantage to move in for a couple of perfectly placed body blows that landed with several fleshy thuds. Buffy grunted and neatly tripped the dark slayer, who stumbled momentarily before regaining her footing. The two slayers circled each other, bloodied and battered and starting to bruise. Faith wiped inelegantly at the trickle of blood from her nose with a sleeve and snorted.

"Not sure why we're bothering with this, B. Not like either of us is actually gonna beat the other one."

Buffy sniffed and rubbed at her shoulder, massaging it briefly. "Practice."

"Right," Faith replied. "No fun sparring with the baby slayers. Its not like they've killed an army of uber vamps or anything. Fragile darlings."

Buffy continued to circle. "You and I are better matched. Older. More experienced."

"More likely to fight dirty?"

"Something like that."

"That red head nearly took you down the other day with a dirty move. They do okay in that department." Faith straightened, dropping out of her fighting crouch and flopping down on the floor of their makeshift practice room with a gusty sigh and stretched, groaning.. "So why do we do this?"

Buffy did not drop her stance, but did cock her head, considering. "Issues", she said at last. Faith nodded.

"Big ones. Shall we go again or grab some dinner?"

Buffy bent to pick up a pair of handaxes, tossed one to Faith and opened her mouth to reply.

Then everything slipped sideways, and the reply was lost.

The stinging on her cheek from where Faith had gotten in a lucky shot was what she noticed first, shortly followed by the fact that the two Slayers were now sprawled inelegantly at the bottom of a gully that seemed to cut through some sort of browned, grassy landscape. Buffy's head whipped around as she caught the sound of Faith gagging behind her. The brunette waved awkwardly as she caught her breath, and muttered "Fine, I'm fine." A cool breeze ruffled the hair around her face, and both slayers looked up at the figure before them.

Champions learned quickly to associate Whistler's appearance with a certain mixture of anticipation and dread. Although Buffy's contact with this agent of the PTB had been fairly limited in the past, she experienced this exact gut reaction when he appeared in front of the two slayers. The short dark haired almost-man was wearing a blue suit so shiny that she could almost see her shocked face reflected in his lapels. He grinned at her.

"Hi there, slayer. Slayers. Welcome to sunnyPortugal. Nice eh?"

Buffy shook her head and stood up.

"What are we doing here?" She looked around at the hilly landscape, mostly browned and muddy, with a few stubby trees doing little to break up the horizon to the west. To the east, a rock outcropping rose darkly against the grey sky. Buffy looked at Faith, who stood up and looked at Whistler, one dark eyebrow raised.

"Yeah. Who are you and what is _with_ that suit?"

The demon didn't take the bait, instead smiling a small smile.

"You've been shifted here to save the world."

There was a pause when both slayers looked at each other with no small degree of incredulity.

Buffy spoke first.

"No. We defeated The First. What else do you want? No more world saving for a while, okay?."

He did not move, instead grinning at her even more broadly. "No such thing as a break, Slayer, and no such thing as defeating the First Evil. The First Evil is in everything. To defeat it you would need to kill everything from soil microbes on up."

"We've had this discussion a bunch of times with Giles, okay?" Faith commented, crossing her arms. "Do you have any other, more cheerful news? Maybe about puppies?"

Whistler regarded the dark slayer's stony expression and blinked at her. A moment of silence passed.

"All that I care about right now is that I've – we've – beaten the First so that it can't cause any trouble in this world. More than normal, anyway. No vampire invasions, no end of the world, no everything turning to Evil. This world is okay," Buffy declared and raised her chin at Whistler, shivering slightly in the chill breeze. "The plans for world domination have been foiled.," she said finally. "And I thought sunny Portugal was supposed to be… sunny."

He did not reply for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. He hated this part.

"There's a way. The First has found a way to change things."

Faith's eyes widened. "Another one? What, are we just made of loopholes now? I thought we did the whole restoring balance thing already."

Whistler nodded. "Yes, the First Evil was only able to reappear because of Buffy's resurrection, and that balance has been restored in full. This is unexpected, but not impossible. And quite in character, really."

Buffy blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Time." Whistler swallowed. "And its chilly because its early spring at this time and there's a storm rolling in."

Buffy made an impatient gesture. "Time? What about time? Time to do what?"

The demon shook his head. "Not time to do something. _Time._ As in time and space. The building blocks of your reality. The blocks have… well… chinks in them. Points of weakness. The First has found one."

"So the First is… traveling back in time?" Buffy frowned. "I'm still lost."

Whistler paused to take a breath. "Time and space are completely relative. Everything exists and is happening on a quantum level in the here and now. As we speak, pyramids are being built, the roman empire is rising, Isaac Newton is making his big discovery, Hitler is shaving for the first time– linear time is a construct that makes everything easier to understand. Time isn't a line. Think of time as a layer cake, where each layer of sponge and cream exist in the same space and time as the previous layer. Get it?"

Buffy frowned. "Time space cake. Got it. Sort of. Whatever. Is the lecture necessary?"

Whistler nodded. "Not strictly I suppose, but it'll help. Each layer of the cake has a certain point of weakness where it meets the other layers. Not a physical point, since all the layers exist at once, more like a psychic weakness. The First is exploiting one of these weaknesses to change something about you in its favour."

"Its going back to wipe me out completely? But then it would never get the chance to rise at all. I thought this worked a little differently, like, if you change one thing in the past, everything changes in the future?"

"You're catching on, kids." Whistler looked pleased. "Lets leave the cake for the moment, and move on to the string." He produced a piece of string from his pocket and held it in front of her face.

"We've gone from cake to string?" Faith frowned at him. "Are you sure you know what you're talking about?"

He looked pained, and held the string horizontally taut in front of them, his fingertips several inches from either end. Buffy noticed they were unnervingly without any texture.

"This string is the chain of cause and effect that has shaped your reality as you know it. All along the length of the string, cause followed by effect, effect becomes cause to be followed by another effect and so on. Humans mistake cause and effect for Time and Space. Generally speaking, things which dwell within the chain of cause and effect are subject to its laws. You, for example, could not change something back here – " he twitched his left hand, "without everything from that point on changing. To some extent, The First is also constrained by this most basic of laws. The cause – the resurrection – created the effect – the imbalance that allowed the First to reach for ascendance. With me so far?"

The slayers glanced at each other and nodded.

"Good. Okay, so here we have the chain of cause and effect. Unbreakable, immovable, right?"

They nodded again. He shook his head.

"Wrong. Unbreakable, yes. Immovable, no. If you know how, you can bend the string, knot it, so that a cause here – " he twitched his left hand again, "will not take effect until here." He twitched his right hand, then looped the string so that both points touched and crossed over an inch from either end. Buffy regarded it for a moment.

"So, The First is going to cause something to happen in the past which will not take effect until after I was resurrected? Something that will wipe me out of history, so there is no Slayer to stop Its ascendance?"

Whistler looked genuinely disappointed. Buffy felt annoyed. She had more or less kept up with his cakes and string Intro to Vaudeville Physics act, why the disappointment?

"Not you, Buffy. You are too intricately interwoven into this chain. But there is another slayer. Remember?"

His gaze flicked to Faith.

She blinked several times and stared at the string that the blue suited demon held in front of her face. Her gaze flicked to Buffy, then back to Whistler.

"Boy," she said conversationally. "And here was I thinking smart guys were sexy." She rose and pushed past Whistler to pace a few steps then turn back when she reached the edge of a patch of glutinous looking mud.

"The First is going to time travel and wipe out my great great grandfather or something? To stop me coming into existence?"

Whistler shook his head. "No, you'll come into existence, you'll just blink out of it at a rather crucial moment. Say, just before the fight with the First. Or even earlier. Say, perhaps, leaving Angelus as an ally of the First."

Faith swore under her breath. "So, how do we stop it? Do we need to find the magic scissors to cut the magic thread of time or something?"

"You need to meet the threat where it occurs," Whistler said after a moment.

"Of course," Buffy responded, "that's what we do. Where is it occurring now?"

Whistler looked at Faith, who nodded. "I'm in on this in a big way. Point me at the thing to hit." She glanced at Buffy, standing beside her. "It's what we do. Besides… I'm just starting to kind of like my existence again."

Whistler smiled an odd, Mona Lisa sort of smile, then nodded. "Alrighty then. Lets move quickly. Time, as they say, is of the essence."

"Any idea what we're facing?" Faith asked as Buffy handed her one of the handaxes. The demon shrugged.

"Demons. Irriak Demons. Can cause a lot of havoc and bloodshed."

Faith raised her eyebrows. "So… average run of the mill havoc and bloodshed demons then?"

"No,", Buffy interjected, "I've read about Irriak Demons somewhere. I think they're mind controllers, aren't they?"

Whistler nodded. "Mind controllers that induce havoc and bloodshed by creating paranoia and panic."

Behind Buffy, Faith straightened her denim jacket after tucking the hand axe into her belt..

"How do we kill them?"

The demon nodded at the hand axe. "That oughta do it."

Buffy held up both hands. "Whoa, buster. Not so fast! I'm having a memory! They assume the form of a human by … oh, what was it?"

Whistler blinked. He did not reply.

Buffy frowned. "Oh, yeah, they inhabit the skin of a man to cause dissension among his friends." She made a face. "They're carrion eaters, so they'll be going for a maximum body count then tucking in to the buffet. They' re found mostly on battlefields, I think."

Faith turned to Whistler.

"If these things look like humans, how can we pick them? And, can we kill them?"

Whistler shrugged. "You're the slayers."

"So, let me get this straight," Buffy said sharply, directing her no-more-messing-around gaze toward Whistler. "The First has stuck a few of these Irriak things in the way of Faith's great great grandfather or whatever? He's, what, a farmer in Portugal? _When_ exactly are we?"

From the east, where the low rock bluff thrust upward toward the dark clouds, a rifle shot rang out, and the breeze, rapidly becoming a wind, carried the sound of a shout. Buffy frowned.

"Irriaks are mostly found on battlefields," she muttered, and grabbed Whistler by his shiny lapels. "_When?_"

He swallowed. "The year is 1813, a few years off from the battle of Waterloo. This will become known as the Peninsular Campaign."

Something tugged at the back of Buffy's brain, something from half forgotten college classes.

"The Napoleonic War? You've landed us in the middle of the Napoleonic War?"

Faith glanced around as the wind picked up pace and a fat drop of water fell from the sky and thudded into the dust at her feet. "The Napoleon War? So, what, some French guys are marching across Europe? Led by a tiny man on a horse?"

More shots rang out from the bluff. Buffy squinted and made out some low, earth coloured buildings squashed against one side of its base.

Whistler pointed at the cluster of buildings. "Keep your wits about you." He grinned at them. "Things aren't always as they seem. I'll be back for you." A loud thud, what sounded like artillery fire, came from the top of the bluff. Both slayers turned toward the sound, and exchanged glances, before turning back to Whistler. He was gone.

Major Richard Sharpe was in a tricky spot. He was crouched behind a large sand coloured boulder at the top of a low bluff, his unit deployed around him, similarly crouched and alert. The Chosen Men of the 95th had been dodging a French patrol for most of the day, and when the patrol headed northwest instead of due west after Sharpe and his Men, things seemed to have been looking up. Even the setting sun and the distant storm rumbling in across the eastern horizon couldn't dampen the men's relief at evading the larger French patrol group on open ground. They had continued to head west, under orders to meet up with a group of cacaderos and escort them to a British position not more than two days travel further southwest. The ambush had come fast, as the unit crossed a small gully. The French patrol had joined their main body of troops – an entire regiment by the feel of it – and, after the initial volley of shots in the gully, pursued them almost casually to this very spot and had pinned them behind these boulders for half an hour under a cover of precise sniping at any movement. Night approached too rapidly, and with it the storm. Sharpe squinted out into the gathering gloom at the French position. He was uncomfortable with this set up; he felt as though he and his men had been… herded somehow to this spot. He cursed himself thrice over for allowing it to happen. The Chosen Men were effectively trapped, held fast to this position by the French infantry. For Richard Sharpe, however, there was always a back door somewhere… Sergeant Patrick Harper's boots scraping the sandy soil as he slid down next to him broke his concentration on the French position. The Major turned to the large Irishman expectantly.

"And?"

Harper nodded. "We found it. Seems clear at the bottom, no Frenchies, just some farm buildings at the base. Looks deserted. Purefoy's half way down already. Good lad that."

Sharpe flashed his Sergeant a quick smile, his teeth pale in the storm's gloom. A few fat drops of rain hit his forehead. "Aye. Purefoy's a good lad. We'll see how he takes to being a Chosen Man, eh? Now, we should make good our escape. Get Harris down, Cooper and Perkins and I must stay til the last to keep the Frenchies busy. Head for the buildings below and we'll regroup there." He looked at Harper to be sure he was understood. The Sergeant nodded and, crouching low, headed once more the edge of the bluff. He let out a long low whistle, and several of the Chosen Men followed him. Sharpe watched them for a minute, then turned back to face the French position and, motioning to Riflemen Cooper and Perkins, raised his rifle to his shoulder. He squeezed off a shot, directed randomly, and was answered by several in return. Cooper and Perkins followed suit. He could hear scrapes and grunts as the remaining members of the unit eased themselves over the edge of the bluff, following the rough path that Harper and Purefoy had discovered. More shots followed from the French rifles positioned closest to Sharpe's position. He motioned to Perkins, and then to the lanky Isaiah Cooper, and both swiftly followed their comrades over the edge leaving Sharpe alone. He edged backward toward his escape route, and squeezed off a few more shots. From below, faintly, a whistle – the men were down and, presumably, heading toward the farm buildings. Sharpe grinned broadly and let himself over the edge of the bluff as the sun began to touch the western horizon, the heavens opened and the rain began to fall.

The way down was sliding on wet gravel and slithering through gaps in rocks and at one point nearly losing balance and falling down the more direct route to the bottom – but eventually, Sharpe reached the base of the bluff and landed in a crouch. He stood, checked his rifle, and wiped the rain from his face. Perkins materialized beside him in the heavy rain, his teeth shining as he grinned at his commanding officer.

"Good to see you sir. I volunteered to wait for you while the others secured the farmstead."

Sharpe clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Good lad, Ben Perkins." He scanned the bluff above and the land around them, expecting pursuit. He frowned when he saw none, and followed Corporal Perkins toward the dark buildings a short distance away.

The cluster of earth coloured buildings was a small farmstead with a one-room cottage and two outbuildings. The more Harper looked around it, the more uncomfortable he felt. There were vegetables in the small garden, scrappy and struggling, but tended. The buildings looked to be in decent condition, cared for, not as one might expect from a farm that was in all other respects deserted. He supposed that the inhabitants had been scared off by the French forces, or perhaps had abandoned the land as the conflict drew near. Odd noises drew his attention past the cottage to where, a short distance away, a dozen well fed sheep and a nervous looking shaggy pony milled uneasily in a well built pen by the farthest outbuilding. Harper shook his head. No farmer would leave as abruptly as this, and leave his stock behind him. He headed for the door of the cottage and opened it slowly with the muzzle of his rifle, half expecting French infantrymen to pounce from the other side. Nothing. Purefoy and Hagman were watchful behind him. He turned to them.

"Harris, Hagman," he called softly, and indicated the nearer of the two outbuildings. The two riflemen edged toward it, alert to movement. Harper pointed Cooper and Purefoy to the farthest building. Cooper nodded shortly and motioned Purefoy to follow him, rifle ready.

"Looks quiet," Harper muttered uneasily, and edged once more toward the cottage door, stepping across the threshold. By the door, a bowl of beans left soaking had developed a thin layer of slimy mould. The smell of death was not overpowering, but it was distinctive and halted him in his stride.

He peered into the darkened interior and made out a long dark splash across the back wall, and a huddle of shadowed – something – in the corner beneath it. Harper stepped hesitantly toward it. The figure was shadowed, but he could have sworn that the body was wearing the blue and white of a French infantryman. Harper moved forward to investigate, but footsteps behind him pulled him back.

"We need to keep moving," said Sharpe, looming out of the half light and the rain behind them. "Now that we have the cover of the rain and the evening light, we need to keep moving. We may be able to meet the cacaderos after all."

"Aye sir," Harper nodded, glancing once more into the darkened, stinking cottage. He wiped rain from his broad, tanned face and opened his mouth to speak again.

From the top of the bluff, three French riflemen squinted into the rain and took what aim they could.

_A/N: Please bear with my dodgy quantum theory. Timeline manipulation is tricky. I'm not a prolific writer, so the updates won't be coming thick and fast, but I like this premise too much and have too much planned to let this drop by the wayside. I promise the action will kick off in the next chapter!_

_Cacaderos were Portugese skirmish fighters who sided with the British against the French. Theresa Moreno was one. I use lingo and jargon with frolicsome abandon. You should be able to figure it out if you don't know it._


	2. Damsels

**Chapter Two: Damsels**

Two things happened at once: a shot rang out and Harper staggered as it slammed into his right thigh, and Oliver Purefoy screamed, high pitched and terrified, until he was abruptly cut off with a barely heard gurgle.

The Chosen Men erupted into activity.

"Find cover!" Sharpe cried, and lunged forward to catch Harper as he fell, slipping sideways a little under the larger man's weight and struggling to hold him tightly through his slick oilskin. A second and third shot thudded into the mud beside him as he swung an arm around his sergeant's waist and pulled him awkwardly backwards against the wall of the cottage. Harper was already fumbling at his neck for his kerchief, pulling it roughly off and pressing it against the wound. A second scream, this one of fury rather than terror, came from the far outbuilding, followed swiftly by several shots.

"Damn, damn, damn!" the large Irishman cursed. Sharpe pressed both of Harper's hands to his thigh over the kerchief, then fumbled in his own pack and hauled out his spare shirt. He bound it roughly around Harper's leg.

"You'll do?" he asked. Harper nodded. Sharpe pushed himself upright and primed his rifle, rounding the corner of the cottage at a run and skidding across the muddy yard to the far outbuilding. His men were involved in a vicious melee with two strange dark men – farmers by what they wore, although they fought like no farmer Sharpe had ever encountered.

One of them grabbed Cooper and _threw_ him at least ten feet toward Sharpe. The Corporal thudded into the mud at his feet, winded. The Captain reached down and hauled him upright, and the two joined the fight. Sharpe saw Harris thrust his bayonet deeply into the chest of one of the whirling farmers, who faltered a little, but continued to fight, completely unaffected. Sharpe pushed his rifle butt into his shoulder and squeezed off a shot that hit the farmer that Harris had wounded in the chest. Again, the man faltered, but continued to snarl, laying Perkins flat with a swipe of his hand and - attempting to bite Harris on the neck? Harris pushed himself away just in time, his face a mask of horror. Sharpe felt a curl of fear up his spine. What were these things that looked like men?

"Back!" he ordered. "Reform!"

The Chosen Men stumbled backwards from the two snarling farmers. Abruptly, two more figures joined the fray, coming between the farmers and the riflemen, smaller – female? – figures, striking out with fists and feet and what appeared to be small hand axes, beating the strange men with a vicious efficiency that made Sharpe pause. The blonde grabbed one of the farmers and threw him towards the sheep pen, following in three quick steps to land beside him. She snapped a fence paling with one blow, picked it up and thrust it into his chest as he lunged at her. Then she whirled and with a shout tossed the paling to the darker woman, who finished off the other farmer in a similar fashion, kicking his feet from under him and stabbing the paling into his chest before he had even landed. Sharpe blinked in disbelief. It had taken these two less than ten seconds, by his reckoning, to dispose of the strange farmers, and now he could not even see the bodies. He stepped forward, adrenalin still surging through him.

"Halt!" he called, as much to his own men as to the two strange women, who looked at each other and then at him. The blonde looked pointedly at her partner then tucked her weapon into the top of her trousers. There was a moment of stillness, the only sound created by the rain storm as it gathered momentum and rumbled darkly around them. A chilly wind reminded Sharpe that he was soaked through, as were his men and the two women. He peered at them for a moment. They wore men's clothing, and looked a little too bruised to have gained all of their apparent injuries in the brief melee he had witnessed.

"So…" the blonde said suddenly, raising her hands as if in surrender. "Um… parlez vous Francais? Erm… Je suis… erm…Le stylo de ma tante est… fatigue." She shrugged and gave a small smile. The brunette still held her hand axe, and Sharpe noticed that her fingers curled more tightly around it.

"French women?" muttered Perkins, beside him. "Here?"

"Not French," Sharpe replied, looking again at the blonde. "Who are you?"

She sighed. "I never was all that good at French, but I guess since you guys apparently aren't French it doesn't matter."

"Who are _you_?" the brunette asked, thrusting her chin toward him. Hagman stepped forward and edged around them into the outbuilding, emerging a few seconds later.

"Purefoy's dead sir," he reported. "His throat…" There was a full minute where the only sound was the wet slapping of the rain. Perkins hung his head and Cooper clapped him on the shoulder to comfort him. Sharpe cursed softly, and returned his attention to the women.

"Who are you? And I tell you I will not ask again."

"My name is Buffy Summers. This is Faith," the blonde woman supplied. "And unless you want us all to die of pneumonia or something, don't you think we should get in out of the rain?"

There was another moment of stillness. Sharpe looked at Faith closely for a moment before shaking his head and opening his mouth to speak.

"Sir –", Harris began suddenly, peering rather intently at the two soaking women.

"Where are the bodies?" Cooper asked abruptly, glancing apologetically at his Major, and at Harris. The two women frowned at each other, then gave the men a measuring glance.

"You should grab your friend," the blonde replied after a moment, jerking her head toward the outbuilding where Purefoy's still, booted feet could be seen through the low doorway. "Then we should get inside somewhere and discuss this."

A cold rivulet of water slid down Sharpe's neck and into his collar, and he could not at that moment argue with the logic of that. He shot a reflexive glance toward the top of the bluff. The rain obscured his vision, but he could not believe that the French infantry had disappeared as completely and mysteriously as the bodies of the two dead farmers. He shook his head.

"We can't afford to stop here," he said, looking at his men. "The French are still up there, and its only a matter of time before they find the way down, if they aren't already going around. We need to keep moving." He shivered. "Hagman, Harris, fetch Sergeant Harper. Corporal Cooper, fetch Purefoy's rifle and pack. We… we'll have to leave him here." He took a deep breath and motioned to the two women. "You will be joining us. I will require explanations of this as soon as we are away from danger. I must assume that provision for your transport will have to be made. Perkins, the pony." Perkins shrugged, and trudged toward the livestock pen. Sharpe strode toward the women, who stood their ground, although he noticed that the brunette's grip on the axe once again tightened.

"I'll not harm you. My name is Major Richard Sharpe of His Majesty's 95th Rifles. We are bound for the British position two days east of here. You will be under my care until we arrive there, and then we shall see what is to become of you."

Buffy regarded the tall sandy haired man who stood before her. Despite his words, his tone was devoid of much actual concern for them. He sounded royally pissed, actually. She flexed her hands. They were cold and wet, like the rest of her.

"So, B. Are we meant to be, like, damsels, here or what?" Faith asked, trying for a subtle tone but forced to shout a little to be heard above the rain.

The Captain looked at her sharply, but said nothing. Buffy shrugged. "I guess for the moment we are damsels," she replied, sending Faith a meaningful glare. The dark slayer twisted her mouth in chagrin, then shivered. She didn't reply, but nodded in understanding. The two slayers were out of their depth in this time, and needed to lay low for a while with the natives to get their bearings. The two soldiers Sharpe had sent around the cottage returned, supporting a taller, dark haired man between them. Buffy looked at him curiously. He was wounded in the leg, limping heavily and swearing so hard and creatively that Faith grinned beside her in appreciation of his efforts. All three men slid heavily in the sloppy mud, and the volume of swearing increased as the taller man put weight on his leg to steady himself.

"Sergeant, are you able?" Sharpe asked him. The dark haired man nodded.

"More of a scratch than anything sir, and that's a fact."

Buffy looked at the amount of blood on the makeshift bandage and doubted that diagnosis very much, but kept quiet. Sharpe's expression betrayed a similar opinion, but he also kept it to himself.

"So the pony's for him, right?" Faith asked, gesturing casually at the wounded man. "Right?"

All four men turned to look at her.

"Because, not a big fan of riding horsies."

The dark haired man looked at her sharply through the rain, seeing her for the first time.

"Ramona?"

Then he sagged between the two soldiers holding him upright as he passed out.

Perkins returned, dragging the reluctant pony behind him. It snorted and curveted and rolled its eyes. Faith backed away a few steps.

"Did I mention not a big fan of riding?"

Buffy shot her an amused sideways glance. "You? Afraid of horses?"

Faith raised an eyebrow. "I think I must have skipped the My Little Pony stage," she replied. Her expression told Buffy not to push the subject.

"Sir!" Perkins puffed as he approached. "The rain made it harder, but I think I heard movement out past the edge of the bluff."

"The French patrol," Sharpe said abruptly.

"We need to move?" Buffy asked. He paused.

"We need to move," he confirmed, looking at her closely. Buffy turned to Faith.

"Help me load him up, Faith." She faced Sharpe. "Muster your men. We'll take him."

He paused for a moment, then gestured to Hagman and Harris, who relinquished their burden into Faith's arms.

"Hold the nice horsie," she muttered to Perkins, who complied, wide eyed as she and Buffy hefted the six foot tall Harper onto the skittish pony's back. Cooper appeared with Purefoy's pack and Baker rifle slung over his shoulder. His men assembled, Sharpe barked out a few words that made no real sense to the slayers. The unit fell in to a marching order, with Hagman taking the lead followed by Major Sharpe. Perkins continued to lead the pony when neither of the two women, who were occupied by keeping Harper mounted and upright, showed any inclination of doing so. Cooper and Harris paced at the rear. They headed east out of the farmstead as the rain began to ease. They traveled silently.

The brief rainfall had stopped altogether when the French patrol caught up with them.


	3. Women and Wounded

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely encouraging reviews, and thanks most of all for those of you who sent concrit. Always well received! Correl pointed out a few things, embarrassingly enough most of them are due to dodgy proofing on my part, which has for the most part been corrected. Cornwell usually refers to the Portugese fighters as partisans or cacaderos, so that's what I've been sticking to. If you can find evidence to the contrary, I'm always open to it, as my knowledge of Buffy is better than my knowledge of Sharpe. And, yes, I did know about Faith's surname, shameless fangirl that I am. :o)**

**Chapter Three: Women and Wounded**

The wind knifed through _Capitaine_ Georges Petit's oilskin as he regarded the small group before him, surrounded by his unit and lit by a few flickering lanterns held by his men. The rain had ceased, but the breeze was cold and the sun had well and truly set. He wondered, with a sick feeling, what the Colonel was planning for these British _goddams. _The two demons at the farmhouse had apparently been destroyed. Petit wondered how they had done it. Not that it mattered all that much

There were plenty more and they were close to indestructible under the right circumstances.

"I am Major Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles. I have wounded and women in my party. Let us past!" their leader repeated, sounding angrier. Petit spoke flawless English, having been educated in London in his boyhood, as well as German and passable Swedish, but he chose to shrug and shake his head and wait for the Colonel to catch up. It only took a few more minutes spent shivering for Gagne to appear.

Georges Petit had served under Colonel Arnaud Gagne for the better part of a year. In that time he had seen things that he had scarcely thought real, and had scarcely thought that God could allow to exist. Gagne seemed to answer directly to Bonaparte himself. Bonaparte seemed to hold him in high trust and allowed him full freedom. Petit occasionally – quietly – questioned the wisdom of that trust.

Arnaud Gagne was an unremarkable looking man, which had served him well in the past. His staggeringly forgettable features could have passed for anything from French to Swedish to Spanish, and had done so frequently in his role as one of Napoleon's spymasters. Now his role was somewhat different, and it was one that he truly enjoyed carrying out.

He kneed his mount toward the knot of people that he could barely see through the darkness, and halted beside _Capitaine_ Petit. A cold breeze cut through his sodden coat, but he refused to shiver.

"And who is this? Who have you caught for me Georges?" His voice was languid, but pitched to carry. Petit nudged his horse forward to lean in toward his commanding officer.

"An officer of the British rifles, sir, Major Sharpe and his party. There are wounded and women."

Gagne fixed his gaze on Sharpe, then swept it speculatively over the rest of the party.

"Wounded and women, and yet you escape my ambush?" he asked, an edge to his voice. He nodded toward the slayers.

"Who are the women, Major Sharpe?"

Buffy stepped forward and opened her mouth to answer, but Sharpe made a curt motion to bid her to be silent. She stepped back.

"These two ladies are under my protection," Sharpe said shortly. "You seem to know who I am, sir. Who am I addressing?"

Gagne sat back in his saddle as his mount moved beneath him. "Forgive my crude manners, Major. You are addressing Colonel Arnaud Gagne."

Faith felt Harris shift beside her, as if startled. She eyed him shrewdly, remembering the way he had peered at them back at the farmstead, like he had known who they were - as she suspected he knew who this French colonel was now. She glanced up at the colonel in question and saw that he was observing Harris' reaction with a small smile. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who missed much. She looked to Buffy, who seemed completely focused on Sharpe and his exchange with the colonel. So, she thought, there are still important things that Golden Girl misses. Maybe there was hope for her status as a real human being yet. Faith cocked an eyebrow at Harris, who didn't respond.

"Colonel Gagne," Sharpe was saying, "I have heard of you. You were at Salamanca, were you not?"

Gagne nodded. "Yes. I was there. And I have heard of you, Major Sharpe. My good friend Major Ducos sends his greetings to you, and wishes you well."

"I doubt that Ducos wishes me well. I hope we two will meet once more."

It sounded to Faith like Sharpe was spitting the words out like nails. She shivered and moved to prop the still unconscious Harper upright as he slipped slightly.

"I have no doubt that you will meet again. I believe Pierre quite looks forward to it," Gagne replied. Faith sighed. This was getting tedious.

"Look," she said suddenly. All eyes turned to her. "I'm really really cold, and really really wet, and in case your macho pissing competition hadn't distracted you too much to notice, so are you all. This guy is bleeding everywhere, and this little exchange of pleasantry isn't getting us anywhere."

There was a moment of silence.

"And who are you?" Gagne asked Faith. Again Sharpe gestured for her to be silent.

"Your charge seems quite capable of answering for herself," Gagne replied coolly.

"She is," Buffy interjected, " and so am I. But the point remains that we are getting nowhere fast."

Gagne glanced at Sharpe, who quirked a small grin at him.

"You travel where?" he asked sharply, all pretense of pleasantry dropped.

"The British position at Santa Bernardo."

"You travel with women and wounded. Why?" Gagne continued. "Who are these women? Wives? _Prostituées_ ? Yours?"

"They are not worth your notice, Colonel. They will fetch no ransome." Sharpe shot Buffy an almost apologetic glance.

"But it must be difficult to travel with a party that includes women and wounded. Why did you not stay at the abandoned farm? Surely that would have been a better measure?" Petit demanded. '"Especially after dark?"

"You know," Buffy said in quiet accusation before Sharpe could answer. "You know what was there, don't you?"

Gagne looked at her, taking her measure. She met his look with a stare that had been known to make strong men quake. He did not respond, but after a moment he looked away.

"As do you, I suspect," he said finally. "I should be interested to know what you know."

"Probably," Buffy replied, and left it at that. She looked over at Sharpe. He avoided her eyes, instead gazing steadily at Gagne and Petit.

Suddenly Gagne snapped his fingers, as if he had lost interest.

"Let them go, _Capitaine_."

Petit looked at the Colonel in surprise. "Sir?"

"Let them go. They are worthless and I am cold." He shot Buffy and Faith a shrewd, considering look, and turned to Sharpe.

"If you travel for another hour in this direction, Major, you will come to another farm. This one is not abandoned. Perhaps you can shelter your women and your wounded man there until dawn." He nodded at Petit, who barked an order to his men. They stepped back and moved aside. Sharpe looked curiously at Petit, who saluted.

Sharpe did not return the salute.

"Give my fond regards to Wellesley," Gagne said pleasantly, and watched the two women who passed him very closely as the half-frozen party began to move away. As they receded beyond the light of the torches, he turned to Petit.

"Let's go back to that farm, Georges. I'm interested in what they left behind. I'd like to study him a little more."

Petit swallowed back his revulsion, and nodded. "Yes sir."

They had been travelling for less than five minutes, led by Hagman and his lantern, before Faith turned to Harris and poked him roughly.

"Okay buddy, spill," she demanded.

"Spill what?" he replied, trying on a tone of mock confusion. She poked him again and he grunted. Sharpe turned to them at the exchange, and Buffy looked across the pony's rump at Faith.

"Can you wait until we reach this farm?" she asked.

Faith frowned. "Which could be crawling with vamps, remember? Like the last little farm that Gan-whatshisname arranged for them to visit?" She turned back to Harris. "What was his name again, Red? You should know."

"What are you talking about?" Sharpe asked, falling back to pace beside Buffy.

"Your French friend back there and what might be waiting at this farm you're merrily wandering toward," Faith answered. "Also what your man Red here knows about it."

"Harris?" Sharpe asked mildly. "What do you know?"

Harris shot an unpleasant look at Faith before replying.

"Me sir? A great many things, sir. As you know, sir."

Then he grunted again as Faith grabbed his arm and shoved him forward a few steps.

"Don't bluff a bluffer, Red." She caught up with him and grabbed him again.

The pony shied at the sudden movement and Buffy and Sharpe both reached up to steady Harper. Sharpe opened his mouth to intervene, but Buffy laid her other hand on his arm.

"I know you don't know us, and there is a lot we have to talk about. You shouldn't trust us at all. In your position, I wouldn't. But trust me when I say let her go. If he knows anything, she'll get it out of him."

Sharpe glanced at Faith as she held Harris by the chin and glared at him.

"But will he still be a fighting man at the end of it?"

"Is he a fighting man now, sir?" Cooper asked from behind them.

"Let's start with your French friend." Faith adopted a reasonable tone as she released Harris' face and slung a friendly arm around his shoulders. He sighed.

"One question first," he said quietly, holding up his hands in an attitude of surrender. Faith raised her eyebrows at him, encouraging him to go on.

"Which of you is the slayer?"

The morning dawned grey, but the sky cleared quickly and remained that way. Buffy and Faith had been offered sleeping mats by the hearth by the elderly couple who lived on the farm, and they had managed to sleep a little in the warmth. The old woman had hung their outer clothes up to dry by the fire, exclaiming at the fabric and the colours. Neither slayer understood what she was saying, but the gist was clear enough. Nods and smiles lasted them until they dressed and went in search of Sharpe and his men.

It had taken less than Gagne's estimated hour to reach the farm. There was no merry wandering, as Faith had suggested. Sharpe had arranged his men in a search party and investigated the area as much as the darkness permitted before moving cautiously in toward the buildings. It seemed in the end that the French Colonel had not bothered with treachery. A mere fifteen minutes of negotiation with the owners secured a meal and a night's lodging for the Chosen Men and their two unexpected additions. The riflemen, including Harper, had bedded down in an outbuilding that was relatively dry and didn't smell too much of sheep. The slayers were expecting to join them, but didn't argue too much with the consensus opinion that they must sleep by the fire. The two women had talked quietly with Corporal Harris for the remainder of the walk to the farm, much to Sharpe's chagrin. There was something going on with them and he disliked the fact that Harris was privy to it before he was. They would occasionally cease their quiet chatter and glance over at him, Harris having the grace to appear slightly embarrassed, before resuming again. All talk had ceased as they had arrived at the farm, and Sharpe was anticipating discovering the truth about his two charges – and his Corporal - before they departed in the morning.

Harper had regained full consciousness with the sunrise.

"What are my chances of some sympathetic whiskey for breakfast?" he had bellowed as the others began to stir awake with the first crowing of the dilapidated farm rooster.

"Good to have you back with us, Sergeant," Cooper had been the first to say, although the others quickly followed suit.

"I had thought that you would sleep the day away like a fine lady, Patrick!" Sharpe exclaimed. "Are you well?"

"Nothing lacking but a bit of blood , sir, so you can cross my name off the butchers bill!"

"A lot of blood, Sergeant, and that's a fact. Hagman!" Sharpe turned to the ex-poacher and then pointed at Harper. Hagman grinned.

"A bit of vinegar and brown paper then sir?"

"Only the finest vinegar and brown paper for our Sergeant now, Hagman!" Sharpe replied, and clapped the Irishman on the shoulder before rising and shrugging on his damp green jacket. He grimaced at the sensation of damp clothes, and wished he had not used his spare shirt as a bandage. He looked down to where Hagman was gingerly unpeeling the grisly garment from Harper's thigh. They had washed the wound the previous night, but could do little else. Sharpe leaned down to observe.

"Looks like a clean shot, sir," Hagman reported, squinting at the bloody mess. "In here and out again just here." He used the corner of the shirt to wipe at the wound, causing a fresh seep of blood and a fresh stream of curses.

"Well," said Faith from the doorway. "Sounds like someone's feeling perkier."

All eyes turned to the two women standing silhouetted against the early daylight.

Sharpe grinned at them.

"Patrick, I'd like you to meet Miss Summers and Miss – ?" He raised his eyebrows at Faith.

"Lehane" she replied. "Pleased to meet you, Paddy. Still bleeding?" She stepped inside the building and squatted down beside the sergeant to peer at his wound. She glanced at him and nodded. "Wicked bloody down there. Nice one."

Harper was staring at her oddly.

"Mother of God," he swore after a moment. Faith grinned.

"Nope, but an understandable mistake," she replied.

Harper glanced at Sharpe, who shrugged. "Uncanny, I know," Sharpe said.

Faith straightened and looked over to Buffy, who looked puzzled.

"What?" Faith demanded, and crossed her arms.

Across the room Harris, who was pulling on his boots, looked as if a sudden comprehension had dawned, and burst out laughing.

"Not Portuguese at all!" he exclaimed, still chuckling. "Well, perhaps…"

Buffy moved into the group to stand beside Faith. She looked at Harris and at Sharpe.

"Explain?"

Harper looked at Buffy, then at his commanding officer. "Yes please sir, explain?" Then he winced and shuddered as Hagman began to rebind his thigh.

"I think," Sharpe began, " that there are a lot of explanations needed this morning. Perkins, Coops, see if you can charm some hot water out of our hostess and make us some tea if either of you have still got some dry leaves."

"Oliver Purefoy should make it," wheezed Harper, looking around for the missing Private. "Coops' tea tastes like bog water."

There was a moment of silence. Harper shook his head.

"Oh. Damnit. Poor lad. Another score to the Frogs then."

There was another pause, slightly more awkward. Harper's dark brows drew together in a frown.

"What?"

Faith sniffed at the brew in the tin cup. It smelled kind of muddy, like there might have been a little dirt in the pocket that the leaves were produced from. She sipped at it, pulled a face and put the mug down. Cooper looked a little crestfallen, and she took pity on him.

"Hot. Too hot…" she muttered insincerely, and shot a glance at Buffy.

There are a few things that are universal. One of them is that tense discussion is less tense when conducted through a veil of steam from a tea cup. Buffy appreciated this now in a way that she never had before. Giles had often attempted to convert her to the cause of tea drinking without success, but she was glad to be holding the tin cup between cold hands and glad to have the steam condensing on her eyelashes. The tea was not even slightly like that carefully prepared brew that Giles lived on. The stuff in her mug was almost black, and there was no milk to be had. Or sugar. Just the simplicity of some tea leaves steeped in boiled water. She wasn't even sure that the leaves originally came from a tea plant, but she was willing to suspend her disbelief for the moment. Her mug contained a small, earth scented oasis of calm from the weirdness of the last twelve hours.

The men sat a short distance away, drinking tea and talking quietly. Sharpe, Harper, Faith and Buffy sat on a bench beside the outbuilding, squinting in the bright, watery sunlight.

"We can't waste much time here if we are to catch up to the partisans today," Sharpe commented as he blew across his tea. "So please make your explanations short."

Faith and Buffy exchanged glances. Buffy shrugged.

"So ask. What do you want to know?"

"Where did you come from?"

"The United States."

Both men gave them blank looks.

"America," Buffy supplied. Sharpe nodded.

"And yesterday? Where did you come from then? Why were you at the farm?"

The two slayers exchanged glances.

"That's kind of where it gets complicated."

"How?" Harper asked.

Again, the exchanged glances. The gesture put Sharpe on edge. He could tell that they had constructed some sort of tale. He was very surprised when he heard what it was.


	4. Quiet Conversations

_**My apologies for the long delay between chapters – RL beat my muse to a bloody pulp and danced on its grave. All dodgy Portuguese translations from http/babelfish. Four: Quiet Conversations**_

Sharpe swallowed his tea convulsively as he considered his reply. The two girls were obviously lying, or mad, and he needed to get his men moving in order to make up for the time lost in yesterday's pursuit. He frowned, and threw the rest of the dregs from his cup onto the ground before standing.

"Patrick. Ready to move?"

The big Irishman struggled to stand, brow furrowed in pain.

"Aye sir. Just let me stand up here."

"Don't be foolish, man. I know the pony is hardly a battle charger, but it will do in the meantime!" Sharpe replied, grinning slightly. The grin disappeared when he turned to the two women.

"We move now. I will place Sergeant Harper in your care until we stop again."

He looked over to where Perkins was once again preparing the reluctant pony, then back at the two strange women in front of him. They were tossing their dregs onto the ground in imitation of his impatient gesture, and looking as though they were preparing to move. Their motions were uncertain and he wondered why. The story was far too preposterous to be the truth.

He strode over to his men and gave the orders to get them moving.

"So you are from the Americas," Harper had prompted when the two women became quiet and the story, scarcely started, had lagged and paused

Buffy sighed, and mentally cursed Andrew's insistent little voice in her head.

"Prime Directive be damned," she muttered, and shrugged.

Faith seemed mildly scandalized. "I can't believe you just said that, B," she commented, and Buffy made a face at her.

"Andrew's in your head too, huh?" she asked.

Faith chuckled.

Sharpe looked from one to the other, a bemused expression on his features. They were, Buffy realized, rather nice, masculine features, although his hair was kind of fluffy after being wet and dried in a barn. She squinted and saw he had a small piece of straw stuck in the hair at the base of his neck. She also saw that the bemusement was quickly changing to a frown again. His moments of good humor last night were forgotten, it seemed, and so she continued.

"Yes, from the Americas. Although, in our time, its just … America."

"In your time?" Harper queried. Faith sighed. She had had a conversation much like this one with Harris the previous night.

"Yeah," she replied, irritated and bored. "Our time. The future."

Neither man said anything for a moment.

"It gets better," Buffy added. "Much much better."

"It's puzzling now," Sharpe answered.

Buffy took a deep breath.

"I know this isn't going to make much sense to you. I barely understand it myself. I had it all explained to me using cakes and string, but that's just too confusing to go into right now," Buffy started. Sharpe and Harper exchanged glances that clearly told Buffy that she was sounding like a crazy person.

"Okay," she started again, a little more cautiously. "Let's try it this way. Faith and I have been sent from the future to save someone in this time. I know it sounds crazy," she said, holding up a hand to stall any comment from Sharpe, whose mouth was half open to interrupt, " but just lets imagine, okay?"

"Okay?" he asked, sounding puzzled by the use of the word. Buffy rolled her eyes.

"It means… very well. Fair enough."

"Oh." He subsided and had another swallow of tea, gesturing for her to continue. "Okay," he added.

"Right then. So Faith and I are from the future, sent back to protect someone. We don't really know who yet, except that this someone is very important to Faith's future. And maybe the future of the world."

Faith nodded.

Buffy continued.

"Those things that we fought at the farm, the men that killed your soldier. They weren't men. They were demons. Vampires. In our own time, Faith and I are vampire fighters. We kill them." She was trying to simplify things a little for these guys. Sharpe looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or curse, and Harper was staring intently into his tea.

"Demons is it?" he asked.

"Vampires," Faith answered. "Blood suckers, vampyrs, or whatever you guys call them in this time."

Buffy saw the confusion and had a thought. "I don't think that people have heard of vampires in this time, Faith," she said, shaking her head slightly. '"Remember Giles going on about how vampires protected their secrets – "

"Yeah, until Dracula got antsy for some free publicity and that Stoker guy obligingly started licking his… quill… pen..." Faith trailed off with a wicked grin.

"Except for the Council. And probably places like Transylvania", Buffy added. She glanced over at Sharpe and Harper, who wore twin expressions of being not at all impressed.

"Vampires are demons in human bodies, who drink blood to survive," Faith supplied.

"It's a mad tale," Sharpe said after a moment. "I've little time for tales today. Who are you really? Why were you at the farm? Where are you headed?"

"I don't know where we need to go now, but we'd like to stay with you for the moment," Buffy answered, attempting to stare him down.

It didn't work.

"Demons?" Sharpe asked quietly, glancing at his men. "You want me to believe that demons killed Oliver Purefoy… and that you are from the future? What year?"

After a pause, Buffy told him.

And she knew that she had lost him.

Sharpe strode away, grim faced, to get the men up and moving, as Harper was unable to do it. The big Irishman stared after his friend. This had been a very strange mission, very strange to come so soon after Theresa's death. He worried for Richard. The hard expression on his normally open features had become commonplace since the loss of his wife. As Sharpe approached the men, they rose and began to gather their gear. Harris swung his pack into place, and turned to exchange a questioning glance with Faith, who shrugged.

Harper wished he could walk so that he could walk right over to Harris and bloody his face until he admitted what was going on. If Sharpe were himself, he would have had Harris talking in no time without raising a fist.

If Sharpe were himself.

Harper turned to the two women with a sigh. The blonde one was leading the pony over. The brunette was staring steadily at him. He refused to let it unnerve him.

"Who's Ramona?" she demanded suddenly.

"My woman," he replied, stifling a yawn.

"Oh, am I boring you?" she asked tartly.

"Blood loss," he said, indicating the bloody dressing on his leg. "You say you are a fighter, and you don't know that?"

She shifted into a slightly more defiant stance.

"You have a problem with me being a little woman?"

Harper shot a glance toward Sharpe and was surprised to feel a small pang of grief himself.

"No. I've known a woman who fought. She was an excellent woman."

He looked again toward Sharpe who, ever aware of these things, was pressing a coin into the hands of the old woman for her food. Faith followed his gaze.

"Was?" she asked with a sudden understanding. Harper caught her tone.

"Aye," he replied. "Theresa Moreno, a partisan. Major Sharpe married her. She died in the winter just past."

The defiance left her stance, and she seemed to relax a little. The blonde one, Buffy, approached leading the brown pony and Faith took what looked like an involuntary step backwards away from it. The beast was not an attractive one. It was starting to lose its shaggy winter coat in great tattered patches. One ear looked like it had been chewed by a larger animal, and hung lower and slacker than the other. A few ribs were clearly visible, and its left eye rolled and settled slightly askew from the right one. It shifted from one leg to another and twitched its hind quarters to shake off an insistent fly.

"I've named it Glory," Buffy announced. "I think it suits her." Glory belched.

Faith snorted and laughed. Abruptly she turned to Harper.

"So, who's Ramona?"

"Good Lord above, I've told you. She's my woman." He grunted in pain as he half stumbled back to avoid Glory's sidestep. Faith ducked behind him to help him. He frowned, partly out of humiliation at being propped upright by an annoying woman half his size. He blanched and bit back a groan as the two women helped him mount the unwilling pony.

"This was a lot easier when you were unconscious," Buffy grunted as she steadied him. He clutched at Glory's matted mane as he braced himself against the dull agony that ran up and down his wounded leg.

"Don't throw up," Buffy warned him. He got her meaning, even if the terms were unfamiliar. He hoped he wouldn't, but could make no guarantees.

"Of course not," he replied, trying to sound confident.

Perkins approached.

"I'm to lead the pony, Sergeant Harper."

"My mount is named Glory, Perkins."

Perkins looked at the pony's twisted mangled ear and wall eye.

"Of course it is. Come on then Glory, come on."

He took the lead rein from Buffy, who relinquished it gratefully and with a smile.

Sharpe kept the men in a tighter formation than last night's wet and confused dash for the farmhouse, Buffy noticed. Everyone was watchful for the previous day's French patrol. Little wonder since the French guy on a horse now knew who they were and where they were - and that they were currently horribly vulnerable. Buffy was unhappy about the way that encounter had gone. She was vastly unhappy about being stuck in a warzone in 1813 with Faith, a bleeding Irishman, the enigmatic Richard Sharpe and Glory the pony for company for a start, but last night's encounter had left a fluttery discomfort in her stomach that told her that all was not right with her current predicament. (But since when did the word "predicament" mean hugs and kittens anyway?)

There was a sharp awareness in the French Colonel's gaze, a sudden interest, when he had watched Buffy and Faith walk away.

Too many people knew about them, and the one who needed to know didn't believe them.

She just hoped that this Wellesley guy that Harris had talked about could help them.

There was still the issue of finding Faith's great, great whoever and keeping them safe from the Irriaks as well. That added to her unhappiness a little. Thinking of that, she glanced across as Faith, who was carefully avoiding walking too close to Glory's hooves, and shooting the occasional question at Harper and Perkins. Harper was leaning down a little toward her, and she was smiling at him. Grinning at him, actually. And he was sort of smiling back. Buffy wondered what they were talking about and how Faith had managed to find herself a man so quickly, in Portugal, one hundred and sixty nine years before she was born.

"So she's your woman?" Faith was asking. "What does she do, clean your rifle and darn your socks?"

"And other things besides," Harper replied. Without missing a beat, Faith looked him up and down and commented, "I can imagine."

Harper looked at her askance and began to laugh - then swear as laughing made his leg hurt more than riding did.

Buffy looked up as Sharpe fell into step beside her.

"So how are we doing at being sneaky?" she asked before he could say anything. He looked surprised.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said that you were meeting these partisans or whoever to the west of where you picked us up. Only, we aren't going west, are we?"

He looked vaguely impressed.

"No, we aren't." He looked her up and down, a considering expression on his face. "Although we are heading west in a manner of speaking."

"Only more creatively?" Buffy offered. He grinned, and she was glad that he did. It made him considerably more appealing.

"He's a clever fellow, Major Richard Sharpe," Patrick said above her. Both Buffy and Sharpe twisted upward to look at him. "We'll be heading proper west once we clear those hills, meeting the partisans a little further on."

"It seems my sergeant is a clever fellow as well," Sharpe commented dryly to Buffy. Harper grinned at him and returned his attention to Faith.

Sharpe and Buffy walked together.

"I'm worried about that guy," Buffy said quietly after a minute.

"What?"

"That French guy we ran into last night. He's hiding something. He knew… about the vampires. He knew they were there. He probably sent you right to them."

Sharpe's tone was wary as he replied.

"He is an unknown danger. He knows where we are, even now, I'll wager. And yet he doesn't move to attack."

"Too much sunlight," Buffy replied without thinking. "His vamps would burn like firecrackers, if he has any more." She grinned briefly, fiercely, and squinted at the sun, tilting her face toward it.

Sharpe sighed and shifted his rifle to his other shoulder. He did not reply, but it was clear that he was annoyed by her reference to vampires. His face was closed and his gaze everywhere but on her. She shrugged inwardly. The solid looking sword at his waist caught her attention.

"Nice sword," she commented. "Looks heavy."

He glanced at it. "It is. It's a dragoon sword."

She waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.

They cleared the hills after a half day's walk, and changed direction by degrees. The landscape became rougher, rockier, with small sudden outcrops and low vegetation. The men became silent, their formation tighter, their rifles tilted ever so slightly toward an expected ambush. The sky was clear, and the sun was warm. Buffy and Faith kept good time with the riflemen. Sharpe was a little surprised by this. They appeared to have had a privileged upbringing – well fed, smooth skin, smooth hands, smooth hair – and he had not expected them to be able to keep up - but they had. He caught himself scrutinizing them more than once as they walked, and once he had dropped back to walk beside Buffy briefly. She spoke with conviction about the existence of these things, these demons. As she had spoken, the sun had crossed her face and her hair and he had found her attractive.

Just for a moment.

Richard Sharpe was not a man who questioned his nature. He liked women, as companions as well as lovers. The last time he had seen Theresa, before he had held her cold body in the snow last Christmas, he had been following his nature, flirting with the lovely Josefina, betraying his wife with every glance and every morsel from Josefina's fork.

And again, he had betrayed her memory with a single flash of attraction to this small, strange woman.

Richard Sharpe was not a man who questioned his nature, but he was a grieving man and for the moment that was enough. After one more brief exchange, he left her side and moved back to the head of the group.

Faith's stomach was rumbling by the time Sharpe motioned a halt.

"Oh good," she sighed. "Lunch."

"No," Harper replied from above her, "not lunch." He craned his neck but saw nothing up ahead. Faith peered up at him.

"You look like shit, buddy," she commented brightly. He frowned at her, conscious of the sweat on his brow and the slight buzz behind his eyes.

The land around them was mostly uneven sandstone dotted with large boulders and creased with eroded gullies.

"Ambush central," Buffy muttered, coming to stand beside Faith and looking around them. Faith nodded.

Harper saw both of them shift into a defensive stance. Sharpe had allowed them to keep their tiny axes, and they each grasped one now, looking around warily. He was, frankly, surprised. He hadn't seen them fight at the abandoned farm, and he hadn't believed the men when they had told him of it, but they seemed to know what they were about with those axes. His hands itched for his Nock, or even a Baker, but instead they clutched at Glory's mane.

"Cumprimentos major, eu acredito que você nos esperava."

The speaker emerged from behind a boulder further up the trail, and took three steps down toward Sharpe. He was a short, Portuguese man, shabbily dressed in practical clothes that had seen a lot of weather. He held his hands out in the universal gesture of surrender, but a knife blade flashed at this belt and a rifle hung at his back. From their position in the column, neither Slayer could clearly make out his features, but they could see Sharpe slowly lowering his rifle, and extending a hand.

"Cumprimentos, Rosario. Eu estou contente de vê-lo", Sharpe replied and shook the man's hand.

The newcomer squinted at the small group and spat something brown and repulsive looking onto the ground at his side.

"You're late, Major. We expected you yesterday. It is fortunate that we decided to look for you rather than leave."

He turned and let loose a long, loud whistle. It startled Glory, who snorted and shifted sideways, almost standing on Buffy. The movement drew the strange man's gaze and he gestured and said something quietly to Sharpe, who shook his head and replied with a smile.

"My men are gathering in our camp up ahead, Major Sharpe," Rosario said more loudly, glancing once more at the Slayers. "Come, and we will go with you to Santo Bernardo."


End file.
